


How The Rick Was Won

by gothboobs



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: M/M, dubcon, elements of bdsm in later chapters, some early character death, stupid western cowboy tropes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-28 22:51:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7660003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothboobs/pseuds/gothboobs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young ranch hand Morty has lost his whole family in the space of a year: to fever, to marriage, and to the Gold Rush. Finding himself without any other options he makes the three-day journey to Moonmeadow Ranch, where notorious drunk Rick Sanchez raises hell and raises cattle. In the Wild West where love and loss go hand in hand, will Morty be able to parse the difference?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Good, The Bad, and the Morty

**Author's Note:**

> beta'd by eastcoastlighthouse :)

The sunrise stained the rapidly retreating night sky with faint streaks of pink as dawn broke over the Mazatal Mountain range. It was the third day of February—a Sunday, but Morty Smith was sitting on a saddle instead of a pew on the Lord’s Day, a chest filled with cold morning air and fresh with heartbreak. Beneath him, his mare Cherry dutifully plodded along, and behind them, her still-young offspring Delilah trotted amicably, carrying the entirety of Morty’s worldly possessions. Living in the hot, unforgiving, wild plains of the unconquered West was a pact with the devil: unparalleled beauty and opportunity in exchange for constant, crushing loss. Morty raised his calloused hand to the silver locket around his throat, beneath his shirt, and pressed it reverently. It was now two years on that his mother had been buried in a field full of daisies—and although Morty wasn’t much for god or religion, he liked to think that the blond angel who’d brought him into this world still watched close by. After Typhoid Fever had stolen his mother, the Gold Rush consumed his errant father not long after, and mad with grief, Jerry had sold off the ranch, taken the cash and absconded to California in the dead of night. Summer and Morty hadn’t heard from him since, and it was just as likely that he was dead in a ditch or rich beyond imagination. 

Perhaps it was disgust of the Smith family name, or maybe it was just honest desperation, but Summer had accepted the first marriage proposal she had been offered. With flowers in her hair, a gold band on her finger and tears in her eyes, Morty’s redhead sister had bidden him goodbye and given him a lock of her hair, which was now twisted beside the blond one within Morty’s locket.

Without another option, Morty was forced to saddle up and head south. His grandfather owned a massive, sprawling ranch in Mexico, and Morty needed not just a hot meal and a pillow to lay his head on—he also needed some semblance of a family, since his had deserted him. Rick Sanchez was mostly known for being a brute and a drunk, but when he had stayed with the family for a few years when Morty was still a child, Morty only remembered sweet moments riding horses together and Grandpa Sanchez giving him his first sip of Kentucky Moonshine at the tender age of seven. The long letter Morty had written to him earlier in the year describing his predicament had been responded to with a telegram that stated simply: I AWAIT YOUR ARRIVAL, STOP.

So Morty had sold off the remainder of the meager possessions he had that he couldn’t take with him, packed up his horses and set off. It was a three-day trip away if he was lucky, and sure enough his luck held. Still miles away, Morty spotted the first signs of Moonmeadow Ranch cattle grazing in the fields, their flanks marked with the crescent moon brand that identified animals belonging to Rick Sanchez. Sluggish in the still-early morning, the cows barely noticed as Morty rode by, and there was only one ranch hand who tipped her hat politely at him as Morty continued to ride toward the center of Sanchez property, where the palatial ranch house and ample corrals and stables were located. As he approached, with closer proximity came more frequent interactions with people and farm animals alike. Children were running around the farmhouse, completing chores before church and the heat arrived, and dogs chased a few nervous sheep to and fro across the dusty homestead.

“Oy, compadre, can I help you?”

Morty glanced over at a burly young man who stood bare-chested with a coiled rope around his arm and an ax in his hand. The thick accent and friendly but reserved smile put Morty at ease.

“’Mornin’, I’m Rick Sanchez’s grandson, I’m here t-to work, j-just looking for my grandfather.”

“¡Bueno! Senior Sanchez said to be expecting you—Keep going straight on back, he lives in the green house. After you settle in, come find me, and I’ll keep you busy,” He switched the axe to his opposite hand, and offered his right up to Morty as he smiled, “The name’s Luz De Sosa Padilla; I’m chief ranch hand, so I’ll be giving you your assignments.”

Morty took the offered hand in a warm handshake and grinned, “Morty Smith, a pleasure.”

“I’ll see you soon—gotta go take care of a broken tree branch—” And with a wave, he headed off in the opposite direction.

As indicated, Morty eventually reached a weather-beaten little green house, more yellow than green, benefited by rare shade provided by a statuesque eucalyptus tree. Climbing off his horse, Morty tied his mares to a watering trough nearby, and walked the remaining seven hundred yards or so to the front door of the little house.

His hand stilled on the warm brass of the door knocker and Morty was suddenly filled with apprehension. He’d last seen his grandfather more than eight years ago, and those old memories were surely not relevant to what the old man was like now. Sanchez’s terrible reputation barred him from more than one saloon in the closest town, and even miles and miles away, Morty had heard stories of his barroom brawls, his endless drinking, his propensity for creative and aggressive violence. His own father had never hit him… truthfully, despite being well into his teenage years, the boy had never been in a fight at all. The most violent thing he had done on any kind of regular basis was cow branding, an activity that still made him nauseous with discomfort.

Morty knocked loudly against the door. From within, a gargling voice called out: “It’s open!” 

After a brief hesitation, Morty twisted the knob and walked inside, recoiling at the stench of liquor that wafted by his nose. The air inside the house was dank, hot, and stale. The kitchen stove was lined with dust and had obviously not been used in quite some time. The faucet on the other side of the kitchen dripped brown water. Chirrups of static and tinny guitar music rasped through the otherwise silent corridors, and Morty followed the strained phonograph music deeper into the house until he arrived at the open French doors of the study.

Rick Sanchez was drunk. The study was cluttered with a glut of papers, but despite the messiness, there appeared to be  strange, unapparent method of organization nonetheless. The ranch owner was partially slumped against a worn, velvet couch, his shirt and vest were unbuttoned and open, revealing the dirt-stained and sweaty chest taut with muscle of a man who has worked hard his entire life.

“G-grandpa Sanchez?”

Rick looked at him, and Morty was startled at how, despite being too drunk to sit up properly, the blue eyes landed on him, sharply focused and discerning.

“Well, d-do my eyes deceive me, or is this batch a’ booze better’n most?” With lurching, unsteady movements, he scrambled to his feet—an empty bottle falling from his lap and colliding with the floor in a loud clatter.

Morty shrank slightly—he didn’t remember his grandfather being so tall… so  _ intimidating _ . He had a classic cowboy build: strong, strapping, skin brown and tough as leather from the never-ending sun. His face was covered in stubble that had grown out for a few days but wasn’t quite a beard yet, and he smelled like piss and puke. When he clapped a hand on Morty’s shoulder, the gesture almost knocked the boy down, but he righted himself and forced a polite smile as he looked up at his grandfather.

“It’s good to see you—”

“Don’t lie.” Rick squeezed his shoulder and narrowed his eyes. “Y’all done cryin’ over your mom, right?”

“I—” Morty felt his face get hot at the rude question and the abrasive way it was presented. “I,  ahh—”

“C-cause iffen you’re not, y-you gotta-gotta cry on your own time—I don’t want my cattle to—”

“I w-won’t—” Morty took a breath, attempting to prevent his voice growing shrill, “I’m  _ fine _ , lord p-preserve us! And I sure w-won’t—it won’t affect any work I do!”

“Hey, slow down, y-ya little saucebox, I was j-just makin’ sure…” Rick released his shoulder and took a step back, eyeing him up and down, “You don’t look soft, so that’s good at least…” He sat down on the couch and spread his legs far apart, fully relaxing as he fixed Morty again with his stern eyes. “I’ll only s-say this once; I ain’t keen on repeating m’self. I ain’t raising you—I’m taking you on as a ranch hand out of the goodness of my heart. You’ll be stayin’ here in this house with me—b-but that’s where my charity ends. I expect you to pull your weight, do everything Luz says, keep your head down, and stay outta trouble. Y-you get no special treatment for having my blood.”

“I didn’t expect—”

“Shut up, I’m not finished. Y-you’ll be getting three meals a day—no pay for the first two weeks so I can be sure you’ll earn your keep. If I hear you’re makin’ snakes, you’re out. Did you bring livestock with you?”

“Two mares; my second was selected for breeding stock, but hasn’t been bred yet.”

“We breed over in the north barn; your other horse can go to the front stables, dependin’ on what Luz wants you to do.”

“Understood.”

Seemingly finished, Rick dug around in a mass of papers beside the couch and his hand emerged clutching a half-empty bottle of clear liquid. “C’mere and sit beside me, son.”

Morty faltered—Rick was swinging from friendly to fierce and the mood changes were beginning to unnerve him. But his grandfather’s animated beckoning compelled him to obey, and after wrinkling his nose a few times at the stench, he managed to sit down beside the old man.

Uncorking the bottle, Rick took a swig and passed it to Morty, “N-not quite communion, b-but I can’t—sh-shouldn’t pass up the opportunity to share a drink with both my new ranch hand and returned grandson.”

“B-but Luz—” Morty stammered as the bottle of liquor was pressed into his hand, “D-don’t I need to—”

“You need to listen to the  _ boss _ , Morty, an-an-an  _ I’m _ the boss. A couple drinks won’t kill you, and besides, y-your shitty letter only talked about your family, now’s my time to learn more ‘bout you.”

Morty brought the bottle to his lips and gently tilted the bottle, but evidently it was too slow as Rick firmly tipped it higher and with his hand over Morty’s hand, kept it pressed against his mouth, until Morty had downed a few huge swallows. Sputtering, Morty handed the bottle back to Rick with a glare as his elder chuckled and sipped again.

“I see you are still as wet as a new calf, huh Morty?”

“Doggone it, Grandpa—”

“J-just Rick is fine.”

Morty sighed as the bottle was passed back to him, “…Rick. I don’t drink hardly ever, of course I—I can’t stomach the stuff!”

“Go on, l—let me see you take a big-guy gulp.”

Anxious for the ordeal to be over, Morty complied, putting his mouth around the bottle and sloshing down the burning, acrid, homemade alcohol until he’d swallowed at least three shots’ worth. Bringing the bottle down, he coughed hoarsely and brought a trembling hand to his throat that screamed in pain as he passed the bottle back.

“Look at me, Morty, c’-c’mon, lemme—c’mon...”

After another hard, hacking cough, Morty managed to lift his face and meet Rick’s eyes. The old man was beaming his first genuine smile of the morning and the expression completely transformed his face. The piercing eyes were warm and crinkled with pride, his full grin showed yellow teeth interspersed with a few gold ones. Rick took the bottle and set it down on the floor between his legs so he could reach one strong, brown arm around Morty, pull him against his naked chest and scrub his knuckles into his hair. “Th-there we go, rascal, a real-r-real man’s gulp, bet that—bet that put hair on your back-lemme check—”

“Shove off!” Morty couldn’t help but laugh and fight off the rough hands that alternated between playfully punching him and grasping at the hem of his shirt.

Rick leaned back and picked up the bottle, his smile already fading fast, “Iffen y-you’re lucky I might teach you how to make this—a r-real Sanchez Secret, you know?”

Morty shrugged and just watched him sip again, relatively uninterested in moonshine-making recipes, but somehow completely fascinated with the way the Adam’s apple in his grandfather’s throat bobbed as he swallowed gulp after gulp of terrible liquor.

“G-gonna be great, Morty—” Rick’s slurred speech indicated increasing drunkenness, but admittedly, Morty was fairly tipsy too, “Rick and Morty on a ranch, huh? G-gonna-y-you’re-y-you’re a good kid—gonna make a  _ man _ out of you though, mark me,” he sipped again, his appraising eyes looking over Morty yet again, “I know y’aren’t done crying over your mom yet—” Morty opened his mouth to protest, but Rick shook his head and stuck the bottle in Morty’s open mouth, “Naw, I know, I know you aren’t. But this is home now, Morty, so—s-so it’s okay. You’ll be okay.”

  
Morty swallowed what Rick tipped into his mouth before Rick took the bottle back once more. “Yeah…” Morty rubbed at his throat, staring at Rick’s Adam’s apple, the line of his jaw, his hard and crooked nose, “Yeah, I know, Rick. I’ll be okay.”


	2. Sunset Wet

_-My dear sister,_

_I arrived safely to Moonmeadow Ranch a few months ago, but only now have found time to write you. Grandpa Sanchez is in good health despite his rather deplorable habits. He enjoys drink to an unfortunate degree, and indulges in many illegal substances often to the point of becoming ill. He is however, a talented hunter, a consummate rancher, and an excellent judge of character. As of late, the ranch has been troubled by a persistent wolf infestation which has depleted the chickens and goat herd; tomorrow morning, I am accompanying our grandfather on a short trip into the woody copse nearby to root out the wolf pack and eliminate some of their number. I am happy to spend more time with Grandpa Sanchez, and in his presence I feel a sense of safety and warmth—but I am anxious over the thought of violence._

_You remain in my thoughts, Summer. Often I think fondly of the quiet afternoons we spent with Mama, God rest her soul. Grandpa Sanchez sends his love, and the money accompanying my letter is his wedding present to you. I look forward to your return letter._

_Your devoted brother,_

_Morty_

 

* * *

 

 

With a reverent kiss, Morty placed the sealed envelope addressed to his sister into a parcel that would be delivered miles away to the town where his sister had moved to with her new husband. Truthfully, the money in the envelope wasn’t from Rick, but from Morty. The old man didn’t generally spare a thought for anything other than himself and his own activities, but Morty figured the kind lie would help tie closer the bonds of his small family. His salary at Moonmeadow Ranch was fair, even generous, and because his room and board was taken care of, and Morty didn’t drink or spend money on typical weekend pleasures, he gave the entirety of his earnings thus far to his sister. Life as a ranch hand was hard, but Morty was used to the hot, difficult work, and grateful to be given a purpose and a home, he took to ranch life at Moonmeadow like a duck to water.

As Morty walked to the barn, he spotted Rick and Luz outside cleaning rifles. Rick’s movements were graceful and careful—indicators that he wasn’t drunk yet, and as Morty approached, Rick nodded in greeting.

“Afternoon, Rick, Luz.”

“That it is,” was Luz’s good-natured response.

Rick paused with the gun in his lap and Morty felt his eyes drift across his body. The boy felt instantly self-conscious but refrained from crossing his arms in front of his chest and instead politely inclined his head, “I’ve finished the stables, Luz—d-do you have any chores that need to be done?”

Luz laughed and beamed a crinkled grin at Rick beside him, “Y’know, jefe, I’ve never had someone as eager to look for work as this one.” Turning back to Morty, he shook his head, “You’ve worked hard today boy, you should rest this afternoon…I hear tomorrow you’re going wolf hunting.”

“Oh, uh…” Morty glanced at Rick who still hadn’t uttered a word, “Y-yes, I reckon I am.”

“Should clean up tonight before you go,” Luz advised, “If I can smell you from where I’m seated, a wolf will smell you from miles away.”

Morty’s self consciousness increased, and he now crossed his arms protectively in front of his chest, suddenly acutely aware of his stench. Mucking out horse stables and sweating beneath the Mexican sun had made him more than a little ripe and he felt his face blush with embarrassment even though it wasn’t as if anyone else smelled better. Luz was no rose himself.

“He’s right.” Satisfied with his weapon, Rick handed the rifle to Luz and stood up, stretching his long arms above his head and grimacing as his back popped loudly, “You and I can head d-down to the-to the creek behind the house and wash up ‘fore tomorrow.”

“Oh, I—” Morty scrambled for an excuse but came up short, “O-okay…”

Morty’s lie about wedding presents in his letter to Summer had been the first of two untruths. The second was the way he felt in his grandfather’s presence. Safety and warmth were certainly an aspect of their relationship, but beneath that was a roiling mix of strange and frankly, terrible feelings that plagued Morty’s mind and prompted his stutter to worsen in Rick’s presence. There was something deliciously terrible about the grouchy old man that Morty found intriguing, and try as he might, visions of wiry arms, and scratchy blue stubble, and gnarled, scarred hands tortured his thoughts at night as he buried his head in his pillows and tended to his loneliness beneath the thin bed covers.

“Morty.”

The boy jumped and looked up to see Rick and Luz watching him with befuddled expressions. He suddenly realized he was clenching his fists and squeezing his crossed arms in his anxiety. Instantly relaxing his posture he shook his curls and forced a smile, “Sorry, a bit er—p-preoccupied.”

“Hmm.” Rick shrugged and walked past him in the direction of the house, and with a little wave to Luz, Morty turned on his heel and followed him.

“Y’earned yer keep t-today, son?”

“Yessir,” Morty was relieved that Rick continued to walk without pausing to wait for him to catch up; it was his opportunity to collect himself. The idea of seeing Rick in his… _natural state_ was as terrifying as it was appealing. Sure, Morty had picked up a drunken, half-naked Rick from the floor before, and yes, he’d even walked in on a prostitute sucking his Grandpa dry in the kitchen, but this would be the first time seeing him both naked and sober, and additionally, Morty would be too.

“Get some flour sack towels from the closet upstairs,” Rick was already discarding his shirt as he walked into the house, “I’ll get the-the soap from the kitchen and meet you by the creek. Just go on out back, walk straight through the hedges, and y-you’ll see a rocky path.”

Morty did as he was instructed, hesitating on the first step of the stair to ogle Rick’s back as he trudged through the kitchen. But as soon as Rick had left his sight, Morty berated himself for looking in the first place. His own longing disgusted him, and the boy would rather forget about the illicit thoughts he nursed, but although his daily work was hard and sweaty and rough on the body, he didn’t need to use his brain much. Long stretches of hot, hands-on work were filled with his ungodly fantasies which featured awful perversions of the incestual sort.

He found the towels and made his way back out of the house toward the backyard and through the woods. The narrow path was as indicated, and it wound through the trees downhill toward the sound of water. The late afternoon sun was rapidly sinking into the horizon, and the water glittered gold and pink beneath the sunset. When Morty finally reached the rocky shore of the creek, he was greeted by a sight he instantly knew would haunt his thoughts for weeks to come. Standing in water that just barely came to his hips, Rick stood facing the shore, the sunset behind him, and his hands full of soap. Morty snapped his head to the side and stared at the faraway mountain range as he awkwardly set the towels neatly on the cleanest rock he could find and began pulling off his boots. Rick’s clothes were in a pile beside his belt, his hat, his boots, and a short, thick knife he perpetually carried around in his belt. Morty kept his gaze focused on the articles of clothing as he tried to distract himself from their owner who was just a stone’s throw away.

“Christ above and hell beneath us, boy, c-c-can you hurry it up?”

“I’m hurryin’!” Morty snapped, regretting his tone of voice the moment the words left his mouth.

“Oh? You sassin’ me, boy? Don’t make me come out of the water—m-my belt is within reach…”

Morty swiftly shed the rest of his clothes, holding a hand over his crotch modestly as he gingerly walked over the sharp rocks to the edge of the water where soft pebbles and sand began. “I’m, I’m _not_ , Rick—”

“Sounds like it—”

“Y-you’re awfully cranky w-when you’re sober, mayb—”

As Morty entered the water, Rick had charged forward and snatched him by the hair, dunking him beneath the water and holding him under to discourage anymore back talk. When he finally allowed the struggling boy to emerge, Morty burst from the surface of the clear, cool water, gasping, sputtering, and coughing. Rick’s warm hand firmly held his upper arm as Morty found his footing on the slippery creek bed, and as he coughed, Rick’s opposite palm pounded his back to help dislodge water from his lungs. But as soon as he was able, Morty pushed away from Rick’s strong support and sank into the water up to his chin, glaring up at Rick from a few feet away.

The juxtaposition of cruelty and kindness—a sharp slap followed by a friendly smile—an angry, drunken scolding ending with heavy, familiar arms slung around his shoulders… Morty found Rick’s mood swings disorienting and unsettling, but beneath the water, he could feel the organ between his legs stir with interest.

If Rick was annoyed at Morty, he didn’t show it, instead grabbing the soap from where it floated nearby in the water, and lathered himself up as he mused, “Should be clear skies tomorrow mornin’. Y-you excited to go hunting?”

“I s’pose.” Morty dipped his head beneath the water, and came back up again, rubbing his arms and chest to help dislodge some of the grime he had accumulated on his skin. “How uh…h-how big you reckon the wolf pack is?”

Rick shrugged and bent at the waist, scrubbing his legs underwater with the bar of soap as he grunted, “Maybe twenty. Maybe more.” He straightened, and cocked his eyebrow at Morty, a smirk pulling at the side of his mouth, “scared of big, bad wolves, are ya, piglet?”

Bristling at the petname, Morty grit his teeth and nearly growled, “ _No,_ I’m not scared of _anything_.”

“Ohhh,” Rick held out the soap toward his grandson with a mockingly serious expression, “Y-you sure?”

Morty snatched the soap out of his hand, “No sir, I’m not!” Crinkling his nose at the smell of animal fat and ash, Morty scrubbed the slimy bar of soap across his skin, marveling at how much dirt he had been covered in. As he washed, Rick relaxed into the water, swimming in a circle around him, occasionally pausing to splash water at Morty who rolled his eyes and simply continued bathing. It was becoming an exercise in futility to ignore the sight of Rick’s body, and without meaning to, Morty’s eyes followed the lithe movements of his limbs through the creek water. A few scars dotted his back, his chest, and his shoulders. His blue hair which normally stuck straight up into the air, messy and unkempt, hung loosely around his ears and neck, strands plastered against his wet skin as he continually dipped in and out of the water.

Finished, Morty dropped the soap into the water beside him where it bobbed gently and then floated as he sank underwater and rinsed off the suds and dirt. As he stood back up, he was startled by Rick standing over him, holding the soap.

“Turn, y-y-you missed most of yer back, kid.”

“Rick, no, I’m not—” Morty stepped back slightly onto the ball of his foot, “I’m not a child!” As he placed his weight onto his heel, he slipped on a rock and would’ve went careening backward if Rick’s strong hand didn’t grab his arm and pull him up.

Keeping a firm grip on his grandson’s forearm, Rick yanked him closer and made Morty stand sideways in front of him. Dunking the soap in the water he began scrubbing Morty’s back firmly, and thoroughly, glaring down at him as he washed the boy’s back.

“F-for not being scared of anything, y-you’re certainly jumpy around yer ol’e grandpa.”

Morty bit his lip and stayed quiet, investing all of his attention to somehow getting rid of the semi he was now sporting. Rick holding him tightly, _closely_ , and the intimacy of bathing together had crushed Morty’s self control, and it was only by mentally conjuring up images of the slaughterhouse that he wasn’t trying to hide a full-on erection…and in the presence of his grandfather no less!

Rick suddenly stopped rubbing the soap across Morty’s back, and a second too late, Morty realized he’d been staring down at his crotch in panicked silence.

“S’there s-somethin’ in the water? W-what are you looking at?”

“N-no, no, I-I –I—”

When Rick leaned to the side to look, Morty frantically tried to push away, but it only made Rick hold him tighter, and in a desperate attempt to conceal his shame, Morty’s other hand darted to his crotch, and he held his hand tightly over his still-hardening cock. Rick pulled him by the arm again, and twisted him so his soapy back was pressed flush against Rick’s chest. When his grandfather spoke, the sound rumbled in his chest sending vibrations across Morty’s skin.

“Well I’ll be…”

“Rick, it’s not—”

“Oh, it is.”

With his other hand, Rick pressed the soap against Morty’s chest, right over his rapidly beating heart. With slow, lazy movements he rubbed a long trail of suds down the middle of Morty’s chest, halting at his navel. For a moment, it seemed he would continue downward, and Morty’s hand over his crotch trembled in expectation…but abruptly, the soapy hand moved back up his chest, passing the bar back and forth across his chest. Morty released the breath he had been holding, and it came out in a sigh that he found intensely mortifying. Behind him, his grandfather pressed against his back harder as Rick leaned over him, rubbing his cheek against Morty’s temple, foul breath wafting past the boy’s nose as he spoke against his ear.

“Little queer…are you r-relieved? Or disappointed…”

Something thick and soft and decidedly phallic brushed against his ass, and Morty yelped in surprise, but before he could fully react, suddenly Rick released him and was walking up and out of the creek.

“Rinse off. Dinner’s soon.”

As Rick picked his way among the rocks, Morty turned and watched him from the corner of his eye. His powerful frame, soaking wet, gleaming in the low sunshine, against the backdrop of woods and rocks and underbrush—the image was burned forever in Morty’s brain.

“Y-you’re lucky I wasn’t drunk, Morty.”

And with that cryptic warning, Rick picked up his clothes, slung a towel around his waist and strolled back into the woods toward the house, leaving Morty alone in the water to grimace, and worry and berate himself.


	3. Gone Huntin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our duo head into the woods to thin the wolf pack.

Rick and Morty were awake before the sun. In the few months since his arrival at Moonmeadow Ranch, Morty had made small efforts to clean the kitchen into a reasonable place to make food whenever he’d had time after his outdoor chores. It wasn’t perfect, but the sink had clean water now, only about half the trash and dust remained, there was no more old, rotten food to attract flies, and the table was cleared.

It was in this newly improved kitchen that Morty was cobbling together a big breakfast before they headed out into the woods that morning. He could only find five plates of varying sizes, but he loaded them up anyway while keeping his ear toward the kitchen fire to listen for the pot of water boiling. Breakfast was simple, but hearty: cold cornbread, goat cheese from the Moonmeadow herd, a few ripe apples, leftover beef and carrot stew from the night previously to sop the bread in, pickled eggs, several thick slices of cured, salted meat, and once the water finished boiling, hot coffee.

Morty had his back turned to the stairwell, mixing coffee grinds and a little bit of salt into the boiling water when he heard Rick step into the kitchen.

“Gotta say son,” Rick paused to cough, snort, and spit out the open window, “havin’ you here’s better’n havin’ a bitch.”

Morty bristled, and half-turned to sharply retort, but Rick was already behind him, clapping his huge hands on top of Morty’s shoulders, squeezing affectionately and laughing at his angry expression.

“Relaaaax.” Rick squeezed harder, his thumbs finding Morty’s constantly-tense muscles, pressing hard into the tight tendons, painfully forcing them to loosen and release, “Y-you’re too easy to rile up, kid.”

Morty chewed his tongue and grunted in response as he mixed the strong black coffee. Rick released his shoulders and sat at the table, filling his plate as Morty used a ladle to pour the coffee into two cups. Joining his grandfather at the table, Morty set one cup in front of him, and then sitting himself, took a long sip from the bitter black liquid.

“So you ready to hunt?”

The boy shuddered at the question and putting his cup down, began filling his own plate with bread, cheese, and fruit. “Yes sir...”

“Seem uncertain, boy.”

“Well, um…” Morty fiddled with his apple, “I  j-just never been huntin’ before, ‘cept ducks.”

Rick chewed thoughtfully, quirking his eyebrow over the table, “S’not much different son, jus’ fur ‘stead of feathers.”

Morty nodded and watched as Rick pulled a flask from his pocket and pour a few shots into his coffee before taking a sip. His eyebrow lifted slightly, and tipping his head back he finished the rest of his cup in several large gulps. “It don’t taste like shit!” Rick cheerfully informed as he rose to pour himself another cup.

“Hmph.” Morty retorted, before promptly beginning to stuff his face with food.

They ate in hungry silence, broken only by the occasional offhand comment, or Rick insisting that Morty eat more meat, and pushing slices of cured beef onto his plate. With breakfast finished, Morty moved the dishes into the sink and dumped the uneaten food into a pail to add to the pig slop later. He joined Rick outside where their packs were waiting. Luz brought the horses around while Rick counted the bullets for his shotgun. 

Morty saddled his horse. Rick clucked to his stallion as the horse impatiently stomped and snorted, eager to start the journey. Patting his pockets to ensure he brought along his flint for a fire later, Morty finally climbed up on his mount. Up ahead, Rick was settling his hat over his spiky hair and adjusting his gloves. He half-turned in his saddle to glance at Morty over his shoulder. 

“Keep up, son.” Was all he said. His stallion took off, galloping toward the thick copse that ushered in the larger part of the forest. 

Morty kicked his horse and followed along. The sun began to peak, still unseen behind the Mazatal Mountains, but the sky warmed with a pale pink glow that brightened up the formerly dark farm. By the time they entered the woods, the sun had begun to climb the sky, but the only snatches of light they found was filtered by the thick canopy of leaves and branches. Rick lead them between the trees along a path that Morty couldn’t see, but the horses seemed to know well.  The trail wound back and forth between trees and over an ice-cold brook that they paused at to let the horses drink, before coming to a tiny clearing that was populated by four stark white birch trees. Rick seemed familiar with the area, and swung off his horse jovially, tipping his hat back to look up at the trees above.

“This is where I usually make camp. Let’s set up here, and then go tracking.”

Morty slid off his mount, and tied his horse along with Rick’s stallion to one of the birches, before beginning to unload his pack. “How often do you camp out here?”

“U-used to be every coupl’a weeks or so.” Rick shouldered his pack with an easy sway that showcased his strength, despite his aged appearance. “Used to bring back wolf pelts during drought seasons to supplement the ranch income, but I ain’t had to do that in years.”

“All by yourself?” 

“Eh, with Luz a few times, w-why?”

“Jus--” Morty looked around at the dense, foreboding forest. “Seems a touch uns-safe.”

“Ha!” Rick ambled over to take Morty’s pack from him and playfully punch his chin, “Y-you really are a little bitch. Worryin’ over your ol’e grandpa--I should-I should put you in a skirt.”

“Hush up, Rick.” Morty pouted at his grandfather’s back and followed him, already internally bemoaning how the trip was going. 

Together they pitched the tent and cleared some underbrush away for a fire later. Then Rick sent Morty to get firewood, while he prepared to track. Tromping around the woods, Morty let his thoughts wander to the bath in the creek the night prior. As much as he tried to ignore the memory, it seemed to have deeply affected him. Before going downstairs to make breakfast earlier in the day, he’d awoken with morning wood that he hadn’t been able to rid himself of until he considered that creek bath and tried to recollect exactly how Rick had looked, soaking wet and gleaming in the sunset. 

Of course, that had only increased the general guilt the boy endured. Although his dreams twisted with visions of Rick, and dirt-stained ropes and vein-ridden arms holding him fast… This morning had been the first time he had acted on his thoughts. It felt indescribably wrong, but Morty couldn’t get his mind off it. At the time, he hoped that giving in to the temptation just once would be enough to exorcise his lust but rather it seemed to have just intensified his longing. 

“That took -eulch-  a long time, were ya dawdling?” 

Morty startled at Rick’s sharp inquiry, but then recovered and shrugged, “Jus admirin’ my surroundings?”

“God in heaven, do-do you even hear yourself speak?”

“Should I stop?” Morty meant it as a threat, but Rick laughed.

“I don’t think you can.” Without looking up at him, Rick completed whatever final adjustments he was making to his shotgun, “T-to be honest boy, you seem like the type that’s gonna prattle on unless somethings in yer mouth for a jiffy.”

Whether or not there was intended subtext to that statement, Morty blushed all the same and dumped his firewood as he turned in the opposite direction,forcing himself to stop staring at Rick. “We goin or not?”

Rick nodded at a lone rifle leaning against a tree. “Cleaned it for you--but-but next time yer doin it on yer own.” As Morty retrieved his weapon, Rick fished a compass out of his pocket, checked it, and then dropped it back into his jacket. “We’ll be walking northeast, if--an-an, this is a hefty ‘if’, boy, if we get separated, point toward the setting sun and follow that as far as you can. These woods aren’t too dense.”

Rick beckoned Morty to follow as he entered the thick treeline. “But don’t lose sight of me, Morty. I don’t wanna have to go lookin’ fer you.”

“You won’t!” Morty promised, and hurried along, placing his feet into the footprints Rick left in his wake, determined to keep up. 

It was interesting to see this side of Rick. Morty was used to a half-or-fully-drunk antagonistic cowboy sliding out of saddles or stumbling along missing one boot, yet still somehow maintaining perfect order around the ranch. It was baffling. The only explanation Morty could come up with was Rick’s insane alcoholism camouflaged his genius. In his moments of sobriety, Rick was astonishingly perceptive and well-spoken, as rare as those moments were. 

Despite his morning drink, Rick was still sober as he traipsed through the woods lightly, avoiding stumps and branches and rocks as easily as if he had traveled this path a thousand times before. His awkward teenage grandson however, tripped numerous times but managed to catch himself, avoiding an unfortunate run-in with the rocky forest floor. 

“Morty.” 

The boy felt Rick’s strong hand grasp him firmly and tug him into his side. The ranger gestured toward the forest floor, speckled with sunshine and dotted with flowering weeds and thorny underbrush. Morty followed Rick’s finger with his eyes and spotted a collection of animal droppings. 

Rick walked over to it, pulling Morty along, and knelt a few inches away. “If you had to guess son, how long do-do yuh think this has been sitting here?”

Morty joined Rick in kneeling, and bent his head toward the feces, sniffing curiously and glancing around the surrounding area for any leftover clues.

“Longer’n a day. Maybe two days,” He picked up a stick and poked the pile, “But not more than four, it’s still soft.”

Rick smacked him on the back hard enough to make the boy nearly topple forward face-first into shit. “That’s my boy! Y-y-yer absolutely right--probably--maybe forty-eight hours max.” Rick straightened, readjusting the strap of his gun slung over his shoulder. “C’mon.” 

Where before, Rick had led the way and Morty quietly followed, correctly estimating the length of time the shit had been sitting on the ground seemed to been a test that Morty successfully passed. Now, as they continued their journey deeper into the woods, Rick walked alongside his grandson, pointing out interesting plants, describing which berries or mushrooms were edible, and relating various stories of long-gone adventures from an old man’s past.

It turned out his grandfather had led quite the life--from leading Mexican gangs to working as a double-agent in the Mexican-American war, drug running through California, escaping the Yellow Fever outbreak in the late 1790’s and even funneling several thousand African slaves through his own version of the Underground railroad from Alabama to Acapulco over a decade’s time.

“Why did you decide to start a ranch and s-stay put, Rick?”

The wide brim of Rick’s hat prevented Morty from seeing his grandfather’s expression, but when he answered it was with more sincerity than the cranky old man typically displayed.

“I fear the answer is-is more boring than you’d like, son.” Rick stepped over a large rock and offered his hand to Morty to help him amble over it. “Met a pretty little thing in a saloon, and when she b-began to show she was with child, we were married between a pulpit and a shotgun. Began building the ranch after, an’ moved her inna the house when she was about six months along.”

Here, Rick paused, and Morty longed to press for more information, but elected to be quiet and see if Rick would fill the silence with more details. He was not disappointed, as Rick seemed to mull over the memory for a few minutes before continuing. 

“I wasn’t a good husband.” Rick said this simply--as if it was a foregone conclusion which Morty found a bit depressing.  “Mayhap’s why she died as soon as the baby arrived. She gave birth on the floor of the West Barn--when I got -uuurrpp- got to her side, she was already mostly bled out. They put Elizabeth in my arms, and wrapped Maude in sack cloths to be delivered to her father in Texas where they had a family crypt. Ah, here we are--”

Rick and Morty stood at the edge of a short cliff. Beyond the edge, a steep ravine dovetailed with yet another shallow brook. Against the opposite face of the ravine, several hollowed out caves and dens dotted the area, and packed down paths that marked the well-worn trails made by dozens of wolves over the years.

“Heaven above…” Morty guessed that at least two separate, distinct packs might be living in this area, doubling the number of wolves they’d have to contend with. 

“Damn varmints been multiplying like bunnies.” Rick tipped his hat back to scratch his unibrow. “But it l-l-looks like they’re mostly living here. Makes our job easier.”

“Yeah?” Morty watched Rick nervously. “W-w-what are we g-gonna do?”

“Head back to camp and make our plans.” Rick pulled a piece of blue chalk out of his pocket and marked the closest tree with an ‘x.’ “C’mon, son, let’s get back.”

“Oh--” Morty snatched one last glimpse of the wolf-infested ravine and then turned to hurry after Rick. “W-what now?”

“Now we eat lunch, and-and after I have a mind to teach you to trap, so we can catch some dinner.”

“But--the-the--”

“Yer gettin’ way ahead of yourself son.” Rick marked another tree along the way, “W-we, well, more accurately,  _ I  _ have to carefully plan our thinning of the wolf pack. There’s more’n I thought, so I’ve gotta be a mite more clever than usual. Now hush for a trifle while’s I have a think.”

Obediently falling silent, Morty followed Rick back to the campsite where the horses were busy enjoying the sunshine and nibbling at the grass and dandelions in the clearing. 

Rick marked the last few trees as Morty trotted out into the sunshine, carefully setting his gun aside, and giving his horse a gentle pat before untying his pack from where he’d hung it on a tree branch. When Rick entered the campsite, he made for his own pack, but Morty waved him off.

“I can handle lunch Rick, why-why don’t you relax and sit down. Y-you should think about our plan anyway, right?”

“Aren’t  _ you _ just a sweet thing? B-better not be too nice now, or I’ll think yer getting soft, boy.”

“I ain’t soft!” Morty set his jaw at Rick, determined to be taken seriously, “I was jus raised polite!”

“Y-you seem to get real ornery whenever I question yer machismo, huh?” 

Morty whipped his head around at the noise of Rick cracking his knuckles, and discovered his grandfather was standing not too far off with a wicked grin as he teased his grandson again. “I reckon you think you’re already a man.”

“I work hard an’ earn my own keep, that don’t count?” 

Rick shrugged, “Eh, it’s admirable, b-but men are measured by a certain  _ physicality  _ and you’re still a precious, weak lil piglet, ain’t ya?”

Morty tossed down his pack and turned fully to face Rick, his face flushed red, and his hands on his hips. “I ain’t like that nickname Rick.”

“Oh? Well it’s fitting for an uppish lil child like yerself.”

Morty could tell Rick was trying to get his goat, but golly, it was working, and as much as Morty wished he could ignore the teasing, he was spoiling for a fight he knew he wouldn’t win.

“Iffen you think I’m’a let a whittled ol’e fogy--”

“Ooooh, thought you’er raised polite--”

“To hell with polite, yer makin’ me mad on purpose!”

“Tell you what,” Rick, still grinning, reached up and patted his hat down firmly on his head. “If you can remove my hat, I’ll lay off and-and concede your manliness.”

It  _ seemed _ easy enough, but Morty knew better than to expect simplicity from the tricky old codger.

“And if I can’t?”

“No penalty if you can’t--I’ll just continue my merry nicknames, piglet. Although,” The rancher’s brow settled low over his eyes, “If I manage to pin you on your stomach ya little brat, I’m fixin to tan yer hide to take you down a peg--”

“Well, I’ll be disappointing you, then!”

That was a set-up for a withering joke at his expense, but Rick failed to rise to the bait, instead deciding to laugh heartily, and then tip his hat playfully at Morty.

For his part, Morty took this opportunity to bend down and grab a rock from the ground, launching it at Rick’s hat with excellent aim. Rick caught the rock mid-air, of course, but that was only a distraction, as the teenager launched himself shoulder-first into Rick’s chest. The momentum took them both to the ground. Rick’s hat was still perched securely on his head as he made quick work of Morty’s grasping hands and easily shoved him off as they scrambled on the grassy forest floor.

“Throwing rocks at an old man!? You’ve got a whuppin’ comin if ah get the chance, boy--”

“Already told ya, y’ain’t!” Morty responded through gritted teeth, as he scrapped with his grandfather, trying and failing to grasp the brim of his hat and tear it off. In just a few minutes of fighting, it became apparent that Rick was mostly humoring his grandson, as Morty, already breathing hard was not gaining any ground. As long as he didn’t end up on his stomach, it’d be fine. 

Morty had only been on the receiving end of Rick’s belt once, for failing to properly lock the gate around the goats at night. No goats had escaped and the gate remained closed anyway, but when Rick discovered the mistake early in the morning he’d chased Morty down till he cornered him, and whipped the backs of Morty’s legs and ass until he was satisfied that he’d taught a thorough lesson.

Following that shockingly fast punishment, Morty had remained on Rick’s good side thereafter, to save himself more painful welts. Rick’s stank breath beside his face jogged Morty from his reminiscing and with his hands pinned to his sides, in a last desperate act, Morty chomped on the brim of Rick’s hat with his teeth.

“Now, now, you randy little--li-little tot--” Rick bear hugged his grandson from behind, and then freed his left hand to brutally squeeze the boy’s cheeks until pain bid him to release his clenched jaw. “Biting during a fight is reserved for little girls and harlots, Morty, for shame.”

“Y-you’re making up rules because I almost got yer hat off.”

“Son, ya never even got close. But since yer beggin to be put in your place--” Rick simply increased his strength, and abruptly, Morty was gasping for breath as a solid forearm pressed into his chest as hard as an iron bar. He flailed his legs, getting a good kick at Rick’s shin in, before the old man locked his legs down with his own. 

Grunting with effort, Morty managed to keep himself from being rolled over, but he was still trapped, his limbs held secure. Frustrated, he tried to wiggle out in vain.

“C’mon Morty, wh-what if I was a bad guy or something, that’s the best you can do?”

He wanted to shout ‘you ARE a bad guy’ but decided to reserve his energy for one last desperate attempt. Shifting to the right, Morty pretended he was trying to wrest his left arm free, but the moment Rick’s strength shifted along with him, he managed to successfully tear his right arm free and blindly throw an elbow backward.

A shallow ‘oof’ confirmed he’d hit Rick at least lightly, and he turned his head to see the hat askew on Rick’s brow--but still firmly sitting on top of the blue hair. Morty’s minor success was short-lived. Rick released him for a half-second, but only so he could grab the offending right arm and twist it painfully behind Morty’s back. 

“AH! Curse you old man!” Morty tried to claw the ground for leverage, but Rick sat on the back of his knees and twisted his arm up higher.

“Ya had yer fun, son, b-buuuut I think we’re done here.”

He pushed up on the arm more, but Morty stubbornly bit his lip and refused to give in. Writhing against the ground under Rick, he bucked, and dug his left hand into the grass, and twisted back and forth, all for naught. Rick pushed his elbow up higher and Morty gasped in pain as shoulder throbbed in agony.

“I don’t wanna pop the socket, boy.”

“Rggh...then don’t!”

“...Nah, I reckon I should prove my point.” To illustrate his commitment, Rick steadily forced the arm up until Morty screamed.

“I CONCEDE! Shit, leggo!”

Morty was instantly released, and he rolled away from Rick, clutching at his shoulder and panting. He turned to glare at Rick, but discovered his grandfather had already stood up and was now dusting himself off while standing over his grandson.

“Gotta admit, my boy, it’s-it’s been a while since I had a good wrastle. Maybe in a year or so you’ll even give me a challenge!”

Morty turned back around and pulled his legs back under him, still rubbing his shoulder and feeling sorry for himself. Damn Rick was ready and willing to dislocate his shoulder just so he could win! But what did Morty expect really? He’d heard the stories of Rick’s fights in bars. What made him think he’d treat family with any kind of decency?

“Y-yer problem is, you’re getting too emotional in the middle of a scrap. G-gotta, -euuulch- gotta keep your mind focused, Morty. Brain over brawn, an all’a that."

Still remaining silent, Morty stared off at the trees in front of him and contemplated throwing another rock.

“Aw. Did I hurt my little piglet?” Rick placed his boot between Morty’s shoulders and pushed him gently. “Get up.”

“Leave me alone!”

“Get up and stop pouting, I declare... Y-y-ya jus got done trying to fight me over whether you’re a man or not and here you are feeling sorry for yourself ‘cuz ya lost.”

Morty pushed up to stand, and stopped rubbing his shoulder, even though it still ached terribly. “I don’t feel sorry for myself!”

“Ah.” Rick’s shrewd gaze assessed his grandson carefully before he smirked. “I see… pouting because--’cuz yer mean ol’e grandpa bested you huh?”

“I’m not pouting neither!”

“Then what were you doing?”

An awkward silence fell as they stared at each other and Morty fought the urge to rub at his sore shoulder again. Behind them, a horse snorted as if commenting on the ridiculous conversation.

“I was...thinking!”

Rick chuckled good-naturedly. “Oh were you now? Didya figure out why ya lost?”

Morty had had a sharp retort ready for what he assumed would be yet another teasing comment from Rick, but this question was asked relatively seriously, and he suddenly wondered if there was a way he  _ could’ve _ won. But the teenager was too riled up for real introspection and spat out a dismissive answer instead. “I lost because yer bigger’n stronger’n me.”

“Naw, that’s not it.” Rick sighed disappointedly, “I thought fer a moment you weren’t joshin, and you really were thinkin’ but ya weren’t.”

“That’s the reason!”

“T’aint!” Rick took a step closer and jabbed his finger in Morty’s chest. “I already-I already told ya why ya lost.”

Morty rolled his eyes. “Ohhhh, cuz I din’t ‘think’ or whateverrrr huh? That-that it, Rick? Next time I’ll jus  _ think _ !?”

“Bless yer heart boy, I know you’re a bit slow, but don’t be willfully dense.” Rick jabbed him with his finger again to punctuate his words. “Ya started off pretty well, huckin’ a rock to distract me, an whatnot, b-but as soon as I got the upper hand, ya near gave up right away!”

“What was I supposed to do, huh Rick!?”

“I’m not giving you an-an answer you can figure out on yer own. I’m bigger and stronger but you’re faster than me. You’re more slip-uulch-slippery than I give ya credit for, if that last move was anything to go by.” Rick narrowed his eyes as he stared down at his grandson. “I’m tryin’ to impress upon you the importance of thinking, d-despite present circumstances.”

“Well my stars, thank you for b-being soooo good to teach me, and also thank you for nearly ripping my shoulder off!”

The finger in his chest became a fist that snatched the front of his shirt and dragged him close to Rick. Morty winced at the sudden invasion and wrapped both hands around Rick’s fist.

His grandfather’s voice had an annoyed edge to it that raised goosebumps on Morty’s arms. “Iffen ya don’t shut up about yer shoulder, I’ll hurt something else so you stop whining about it. Understand?”

Morty glowered up at the old man, but when Rick’s free hand moved to smack him, he quickly backed off and quietly replied, “Yes sir.” 

“Good boy. You need a kiss to feel better too?” 

“Get off!” Morty bitterly demanded. Instead, Rick pulled him closer and pressed a needlessly hard kiss against his cheek before finally releasing him.

“I’m going to water the horses. Get lunch ready.” Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and walked to the horses. Untying them, and with a final nod at Morty, he walked off into the woods toward the nearby creek. 

Morty knew his face was flushed as he glared at Rick’s retreating back. He could feel the wetness on his cheek grow cold as it dried against his skin. He told himself he should wipe it off, but he didn’t. Instead, Morty did his best to calm down and consider what Rick had said as he collected the items for lunch and spread them out on a blanket.

A few hundred feet away, in the cool shade of the forest, Rick stuck his hand in the cold creek water and passed it over the back of his neck to cool off. His stallion Clear Skies lifted his head after drinking and snorted in his direction. But Rick chuckled and shrugged as he walked over and patted his horse’s nose.

  
“I can’t help it, Clear Skies. Sometimes I see a colt I just  _ have  _ to break.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel I may have gone overboard with the accented dialogue in this chapter. criticism appreciated, if you have any thoughts. as always, thank you for reading <3


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